The Whispering Gallery

by Mark Sanderson

  He replaced the big book of horrors on the shelf. “I’m going to the canteen,” said Amy, following him out of the library. “Care to join me?”

  “Sorry, love. I’ve got a funeral to go to.”

  “No one close, I hope. Take care – you know what they say: Someone always catches their death at a funeral.”

  Johnny caught a train to Barnes Bridge from Waterloo and walked up Church Road. It was 12.15 when he reached St Mary’s. The service, as he’d intended, had already started. A late arrival minimised the chances of him being turned away. The medieval church, which had been extended and ornamented by successive generations, was packed out. The massive, studded double-doors had been left open, but even so the atmosphere was suffocating. Some members of the black-clad congregation were fanning themselves with the order of service. Frederick Callingham’s coffin lay in front of the altar. The cloying scent of longi lilies mingled with the smell of furniture polish. Johnny made his way along the back of the church until he had a clear view of the front pew.

  The boy sitting beside the sobbing Cynthia Callingham had to be Daniel. He was dry-eyed and made no attempt to comfort his mother. Every so often he turned round to survey those sitting behind him. On the third occasion he caught the eyes of someone a few rows back and smiled. With his high cheekbones, even white teeth and curly brown hair he was a more handsome version of his father. Johnny knew that look. It was how he looked – or how he used to look – at Stella.

  Hat in hand, he walked down the aisle to identify the object of Daniel’s attention. He couldn’t believe his eyes – or his luck.

  Before the man could leg it once again, Johnny, apologising profusely, pushed his way along the pew and forced the disgruntled mourners to make room for him. He sat down and gripped the man’s knee.

  “Hello at last. You and me need to have a little chat.” This time he didn’t attempt to run away. George Fewtrell ignored him. His tear-filled eyes never left the large golden cross on the altar.

  Chapter Twenty

  The service seemed to last for ever. The vicar, using the sing-song voice that is somehow meant to impart greater significance but is just plain irritating, made a meal of the eulogy. He emphasised Frederick Callingham’s devotion to his family as well as his dedication to the medical profession. The brain-numbing boredom was only relieved when one of the altar boys fainted.

  Johnny studied the blank faces around him but did not recognise any of them. He shifted his buttocks again. It was like being back at the Old Bailey. The hard wooden benches of the press gallery were as unforgiving as the judges. If funerals were for the benefit of the living and not the dead, why did they prove to be such ordeals?

  The mourners, two bars behind the labouring organist, murdered the final hymn: “Immortal, Invisible, God Only Wise”.The priest intoned the valedictory blessing then processed out of the church in front of the pall-bearers. The congregation, gratefully stretching their legs, rose to their feet and watched the brass-handled box pass by.

  The Callingham family clearly had connections. There did not appear to be any vacancies in the ancient graveyard, yet a plot had been found beneath a spreading yew tree for the remains of the good doctor. The possibility that he had killed himself was being overlooked. Suicides didn’t get laid to rest in hallowed ground.

  Johnny, his hand on Fewtrell’s shoulder, hung back. Daniel started to come over to them but his friend shook his head and nodded towards the unmerry widow. The puzzled boy went to stand beside his mother.

  “How did you meet? You’re much older than he is.”

  “I’ve just turned twenty. We’re both in the choir at St Paul’s. He’s a tenor. I’m a bass.”

  “So he knew Graham Yapp?”

  “Of course. Everyone knew him.” He pushed Johnny’s hand off and turned to face him. He raised his chin in a bid to appear defiant.

  “Did he dance at the same end of the ballroom as you?”

  The young man flushed. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Really? I saw the way Daniel looked at you.”

  “Prove it.”

  “I don’t need to. The mere suggestion that you seduced a boy would be enough to destroy your career.”

  “But Daniel seduced me.”

  Johnny laughed. “Perhaps he did – but you should have known better. Either way, it’s against the law.”

  The blood that had rushed to the curate’s face now slowly drained away.

  “For the love of God, please don’t say anything. Please . . .” He ran his hand through his straw-coloured hair. “I’ll be forever in your debt.” His pale blue eyes met Johnny’s. They were flecked with gold. Was he coming on to him? “I’d do anything . . .”

  “I’m sure you would, but I’m not a blackmailer.” Johnny was not averse to pulling the odd stroke while pursuing a line of enquiry, but he would never stoop to blackmail. However, he was well aware that his denial still raised the terrifying prospect of being held to ransom, of being at the mercy of someone else. “Why did you run away from me on Tuesday?”

  “I didn’t know you were there.”

  “Why the haste then?”

  “I was late.”

  “What for?”

  “I was meeting someone – not that it’s any of your business.”

  “Who?”

  Daniel, holding his mother’s hand at the graveside, kept glancing over to them.

  “Why pick Daniel? You’re not a bad-looking bloke. I doubt you’d have much trouble finding someone else. Why not settle for someone your own age?”

  “He picked me! I told you, you know nothing. Besides, look at him: how could I resist?”

  “You’re a man of God.”

  “Don’t be such a hypocrite. You’re not a church-goer, I can tell. Whatever else the bible may say about men lying with men, God is love. I truly don’t believe he’ll send me to hell for loving boys. After all, it’s not as if I’m a rabid papist.”

  “Sure you don’t mean rapist?”

  “Fuck off!” The familiar four-letter word was more shocking when uttered by a man in a dog-collar. “You’ve got nothing on me. Just leave us alone. Haven’t you got anything better to do? There’s a madman after you. Wouldn’t you rather be sniffing round women’s parts?”

  “I’m delighted to hear you read the News, but don’t change the subject. Daniel’s father found out about you and his son, didn’t he?”

  “No.”

  “Pull the other one. What about his mother? She’d go straight to the police if she found out.”

  “She’s lost her husband. Why on earth would you want to cause her more pain?”

  “I’m trying to protect her son.”

  “Then go back to the gutter. You can’t even prove what I’ve just told you. Daniel and I could deny everything.”

  “D’you like the idea of another man probing his arse-hole? A medical examination would provide sufficient evidence to have you arrested.” The clergyman cursed and clenched his fists. “Come on then,” said Johnny with a sneer. “Give it your best shot. I bet you punch like a girl.” Fewtrell refused to be provoked.

  “So what if he’s had sex? Who’s to say I’m his only lover? Who’s to say his father wasn’t playing hiding-the-sausage with him for years? You know nothing, Steadman. Take my advice. Go and dig for dirt elsewhere. Leave the Callinghams alone. Let them grieve in peace.”

  Johnny had no desire to make a scene, but this was probably his only opportunity to speak to Daniel before he left for France. If he stuck by Fewtrell the boy was bound to approach them sooner or later.

  The coffin disappeared into the ground. A pair of workmen, leaning on their shovels nearby, waited im patiently for the crowd to disperse.

  “Why were you crying? Did you know Daniel’s father?”

  “No, I never met him. Funerals just get to me.”

  “Must be quite a drawback in your job.”

  “Most folk appreciate my sensitivity.”

 
“If you care about Daniel, you’ll stop seeing him.” The secret lover sighed. “I did try once – I do have a conscience, you know – but he threatened to kill himself. Then he said he’d go to the police. Even if I wanted to end the friendship – which I don’t, not any more – I’m trapped.”

  Daniel, dragging his mother away from a cluster of hand-wringing well-wishers, headed towards them. He was tall for his age but had yet to fill out as Fewtrell had. Even so there seemed fewer than the five years between them.

  “Hello, George. Thank you so much for coming.” Mrs Callingham smiled tightly beneath her veil.

  “It was the least I could do. I believe you’ve already met John Steadman.”

  “Yes, I have – but I’d rather hoped never to set eyes on him again.” She opened her handbag and took out a pack of Sobranies.

  “You’re the reporter who saw my father die,” said Daniel, his eyes meeting Johnny’s inquisitive gaze.

  “Yes, I am. He loved you very much.”

  “How would you know?” His anger came from nowhere. “Why are you here? Come to gloat? Hunting for more juicy details to put in your filthy rag?”

  “Don’t be discourteous, Daniel,” said his mother. “Mr Steadman returned this to me.”

  She opened her handbag again. The boy snatched the note from her and tore it into pieces. Finally unable to hold back his tears, he hid his face in Fewtrell’s chest. The cleric put his arms round him as he wept.

  “Why are you here, Mr Steadman?”

  “I wanted to meet Daniel and it seems it’s not been a moment too soon. I think he’s just begun to realise that he’s the key to his father’s death. Speaking of which, do you recognise this, Daniel?” He produced the key given to him by Father Gillespie.

  The boy turned to look and began to sob again. “No. I’ve never seen it before.” Fewtrell did not break the embrace.

  “Father Gillespie gave it to me. It was with the piece of paper you just destroyed.” The boy hid his face once more and made no attempt to stop crying. Johnny felt like a heel.

  “I’m sorry, Daniel. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “I think you’ve done enough damage for one day, don’t you?” Mrs Callingham knelt down gracefully and gathered up the pieces of paper scattered on the grass.

  “I agree,” said Fewtrell. “Do the Christian thing and let Dr Callingham and his family rest in peace.”

  As the train trundled back across South London, wide-open windows just feet away offering glimpses into other people’s mundane lives, Johnny’s spirits sank. The discovery of the relationship between Fewtrell and Callingham’s son was cause for celebration, but it also reminded him he was single once again. The affair was sordid, against the law, yet their love for one another appeared to be genuine. However, that didn’t excuse Fewtrell’s exploitation of the boy. Daniel was patently in the throes of first love, still swept up in the novelty and power of his adolescent passions. To bring the fling to an abrupt end so soon after his father’s death could well send him over the edge.

  Callingham must have learned of his son’s inappropriate – and illicit – relationship with Fewtrell. For all their medical knowledge, doctors often turned out to be the most bigoted of men. They saw homosexuality as a disease, something that could be cured by cold baths and the rough company of right-thinking men. As a committed Christian, Callingham was no doubt appalled to discover Daniel was an invert. However, in such circumstances, many fathers would kill – or at least threaten to kill – their son rather than themselves. Was Callingham, like Jean Harlow’s husband, overcome with “abject humiliation”? Did he blame himself for some “frightful wrong”?

  It was after six by the time he had completed his account of the latest delivery to arrive at the newspaper. The bones had been taken away for forensic examination. Patsel chortled with glee at Johnny’s send-up of the telephone call from the commander. PDQ warned him he was playing a dangerous game, but he didn’t go so far as to blue-pencil such good copy. Johnny told them that he had drawn a blank at Callingham’s funeral. He would not expose George Fewtrell unless it was absolutely necessary.

  The party at the Cave of the Golden Calf wouldn’t start till 10 p.m. so he had a couple of hours to kill. There was no point in going home. Johnny decided he would have a shower and then get something to eat. Since he had not been invited to the funeral feast, he was starving.

  The shower-room – only ever used by men – was on the fifth floor next to a couple of bedrooms where anyone who had worked into the small hours or just returned from a foreign trip could grab a few hours of sleep. They were usually kept locked to discourage office liaisons.

  One of the two showers was already occupied. Although the opaque window was tilted open, steam billowed round the tiled room. There was a holdall on the slatted wooden bench. Johnny examined the label. There was no name but its owner had written: If found please return to the Sports Desk, Daily News, Fleet Street. Journalists were often careful about revealing their home address. However, Johnny recognised the handwriting. He had seen it before – on the jotter beside the telephone at The Cock. He took the piece of paper out of his notebook. There was no doubt about it.

  Johnny undressed, stepped into the shower, pulled the curtain to and turned on the hissing water. The other man, alerted that he was no longer alone, began to sing “A Great Big Bunch of You” in a pleasant baritone.

  Johnny whipped back the curtain that separated them. “Hello, Louis. You’re in a good mood. Got a date?”

  “Of course. Friday night is dancing night. Want to scrub my back?” He turned to reveal more of his enviable physique.

  “Who’s the lucky girl?”

  “No one you know.”

  “Liar. I’ll give you one more go.”

  Louis continued soaping his armpits. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about Stella.” Regardless of the soothing hot water, he began to shake with anger.

  “Oh.” Louis turned to face Johnny, wiping the water out of his eyes. “She’s told you then.”

  “No – but you just have.”

  “I’m sorry, Johnny. What can I say?” He looked him up and down. “Perhaps she was fed up with spaghetti and fancied some salami.”

  Johnny hit him in the mouth as hard as he could, cutting his knuckles on the Italian’s teeth. Dimeo, caught by surprise, slipped and cracked his head on the porcelain base of the shower. Johnny, near to tears, finished showering and, breathing deeply, tried to calm down. Dimeo did not move. Johnny turned the temperature control above the sleeping beauty to as cold as possible. With a bit of luck he might die from hypothermia.

  Fancy-dress parties were the only social occasions where he felt remotely at ease. He had been looking forward to this evening all week: even if no one else did, he was going to have a ball. The gold paint hid most of his scarring and the eye-mask preserved his anonymity. He just hoped that not too much paint would rub off on his clothes. They had assured him there would be somewhere to, as it were, touch himself up. He chuckled at his little joke.

  Wednesday’s child was no longer full of woe. In fact, she wasn’t full of anything. When he’d finished, her carcass had been virtually empty.

  One more girl, and his odyssey would be over. The endgame was beginning.

  Johnny, with two brandies inside him to settle his nerves, felt another surge of anger as he passed the Monument. If he had known back in January how Stella was going to betray him he would have shoved her down the 311 steps. The fact that she had done so with a colleague – whom he had secretly admired in spite of his cockiness – just made it worse.

  The golden dolphin on the weather-vane atop Billingsgate glowed in the sinking sun. The vast cellars of the fish market stretched below Dark House Lane. He could feel the ancient ice through the thin soles of his shoes.

  A pair of flambeaux marked the entrance to the party venue. One of two vaguely embarrassed men, draped in togas, checked his invitation. Unlike thos
e around him, Johnny did not have to pay a hefty entrance fee. A painted dwarf led him down a set of stairs lined in a leopard-skin print and on into the vast basement of the derelict mansion. Its ceiling was one enormous golden mirror. A waitress, also covered in gold paint, a golden figleaf preserving what little remained of her modesty, held out a tray of cocktails. Johnny took a glass and wandered over to the middle of the room where a statue of a golden calf with a ridiculously large penis was spotlit. A jazz band struck up an immediate frenzy.

  “Johnny, my dear boy. So glad you could make it.”

  “Hello, Henry. Thank you for the invitation – I think.”

  “What happened to your hand?”

  “I gave someone a knuckle sandwich.”

  “Aha! Anyone I know?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Shame. Enjoying the cocktail?”

  “It’s not bad. What’s in it?”

  “Champagne, honey and calf’s blood.”

  He resisted the urge to spit it out. “Are you serious?”

  “Absolutely. It was invented by Frida Strindberg, wife of the miserablist playwright, whom we are honouring this evening. The Cave of the Golden Calf was her creation. Ezra Pound called it ‘a convenient concentration of pleasures which the dull call vices’. It opened in 1912 beneath a hat factory in Heddon Street, just off Regent Street.”

  “Hence hedonism, I suppose.”

  “Hardly. It was the centre of the artistic universe. Eric Gill, one of her many lovers, designed the calf. It represents everything opposed by that old killjoy Moses. Jacob Epstein and Wyndham Lewis contributed designs.” He indicated the Vorticist paintings that decorated the walls. “Katherine Mansfield, Ford Madox Ford, Osbert Sitwell, Margot Asquith – anyone who was anyone visited the club. Fancy a game of bridge?”

  “I don’t know how to play.”

  “Oh, I think you might want to learn tonight.”

  Simkins, neatly sidestepping a naked negro dancing with a man in women’s clothing, led the way to an anteroom. Instead of a quartet sitting round a table, a dozen people were taking it in turns to play with a human deck: golden boys in G-strings, each of whom represented a playing card. Johnny had never felt so out of place. It was probably just as well he hadn’t brought – couldn’t bring – Stella.